


imitations

by fluffysfics



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Doctor Who (TV Movie 1996)
Genre: Angst, Drunkenness, F/M, M/M, Self-Hatred, hurt/comfort but it’s mostly hurt, mismatched relationships, pre-spyfall, someone please hug this disaster man, the Master needs therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:29:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27287947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fluffysfics/pseuds/fluffysfics
Summary: The Master likes to be alone, and he likes to try and forget, sometimes, that his entire life is currently revolving around getting the Doctor to notice him.Unfortunately for him, the Doctor (even if it’s not the Doctor he might expect) has an inconvenient way of popping up when he least wants them to.
Relationships: Eighth Doctor/The Master (Dhawan), Thirteenth Doctor/The Master (Dhawan)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 34





	imitations

Texting the Doctor always makes him feel like a vein is about to burst in his forehead. Always. 

The Master is well aware that this regeneration is a particularly angry one, but there’s really not a lot he can do about it. He sits there and he fumes and he texts the Doctor sweet things about how fun her latest adventure sounds, how nice she looks in that shirt, how it’s okay that she feels so tired all the time, how she deserves to rest. He has to push this imitation of a relationship. He has to keep up the façade. 

And he has to not think about how much of the façade is really a façade, and how much is him being utterly thrilled that he’s talking to the Doctor, and she trusts him, and perhaps she even wants him in the same way that they used to want each other. 

O has so much hope, and the Master hates that he can hardly tell how much of that hope is fake anymore. 

He hates Earth. London is such a smelly, noisy, crowded city. But he will give it one thing- it is damn easy to get drunk in this place. And with as much on his mind as there is, the Master makes use of these facilities often. 

His favourite spots are the quieter ones, the bars where no one talks to each other, where even the bartenders are sullen. He doesn’t want to get drunk in order to _talk_. It should be a way to forget, even if that doesn’t work. It never works. Damn Time Lord brain holds onto every second of every memory with photorealistic accuracy. Presumably, he has the Doctor to thank for _that_ , too. 

He’s hunched up on a sticky corner sofa, nursing a drink that tastes like ginger and burning, when a presence tickles at the edge of his mind. There’s a Time Lord in here. Just walked in, perhaps. 

He can’t have been discovered, surely. There shouldn’t even be any Time Lords around; he made sure of that. But- wait. 

The presence is... _familiar_. Vaguely. Everything about it is vague, in fact. 

The Master leans over, and sees the Doctor standing in the doorway. 

Not his Doctor, thank the gods. If she’d turned up now, seen him in this state, he’d never stand a chance of fooling her into thinking that he was sweet little O. 

Instead, it’s the other short one, except this time around even the short Doctor manages to be taller than him. He’s got wide blue eyes, horribly anachronistic velvet clothes, and soft curls that the Master wants to pull on. Maybe he will. 

He slinks back into his seat, and seethes. This is the last thing he wanted. The last thing he needs right now. The Doctor, in any of their bodies, should not be near him. He can’t trust himself not to fuck up his entire plan. 

“Excuse me, dear fellow- do you mind if I sit here?” This Doctor’s voice is mild, and the hand on his shoulder is gentle, and when the Master turns to look, he doesn’t think he’s ever seen a more earnest smile. His hearts melt, and ache, and twist. 

Swallowing the lump in his throat, he nods. 

He’s done his best to bury his Time Lord presence, just so he doesn’t intimidate the humans too much. But of course the Doctor can still sense it, even if he doesn’t know that’s what he’s sensing. 

“I hardly know why,” the Doctor says, leaning in conspiratorially as he sits down. “But this particular corner of the room feels so _right_. Isn’t it wonderful? Can’t you feel it too?” 

The Master stares at him for a few seconds, taking in the eager sparkle in his eyes. The lump in his throat has stubbornly returned, so he just shrugs, and hopes that that will suffice as an answer. 

“I certainly feel it,” the Doctor continues, utterly unfazed by the silent response. “I came in here for some human company, dear boy- I’ve been rather lonely lately, and this body is still somewhat new, and it’s all been such a rollercoaster...” He sighs. “But I feel so _safe_ here! I don’t know what it is about this corner. Perhaps I should run some tests...” 

“Can I buy you a drink?” The Master blurts that out _quickly_ , because he can’t have the Doctor running tests on anything. That would blow his cover immediately. 

The Doctor blinks at him. “A drink?” 

Thrown by that response, the Master blinks right back. “Yes,” he says carefully. “This is a bar.” 

Slowly, the Doctor’s head tilts all the way to the left, and his eyes flick away to take in their surroundings. “Oh. Oh! So it is. Dear me, I didn’t notice.” 

_His_ Doctor would never be so naïve, the Master thinks. She’s sharp, and she’s clever, and she’s witty, and she would certainly have known what building she was walking into before she walked into it. 

“You didn’t notice,” the Master says, fixing an amused smile onto his face even though he doesn’t feel it. 

“I’m afraid I didn’t.” The Doctor sighs again, tilting his head a little back the other way. “I’ve been tremendously impolite, haven’t I?” He extends a hand. “I’m the Doctor. Pleasure to meet you.” 

Oh, the temptation to take that hand, and kiss the back of it, and say that he’s the Master. He wants to watch fear blossom in the Doctor’s eyes. He wants to see if there’s love there, still, if there’s adoration or hope or fondness. He wants, more than anything, to be wanted. 

But he takes the Doctor’s hand, and smiles winningly. “We’re doing codenames, are we? I’m Agent O of MI6. And- really- the pleasure’s all mine.” He looks the Doctor up and down, in a way that would obviously be flirtatious to anyone who wasn’t a million miles away up in the stars. 

“Charming,” the Doctor says, still holding his hand. 

“So...do you want a drink?” The Master slowly pulls his hand away, and it takes several seconds for the Doctor to cotton on and actually let go of it. 

“Oh! Oh. No.” The Doctor smiles sweetly. “You’re very kind, Agent O. Human drinks...aren’t really for me, I’m afraid, if I’m really looking for a night out. Which I wasn’t, really, I didn’t know this was a bar.” He digs in his pocket, rustling around until he pulls out a small paper bag. “Anyway. Chocolate covered ginger?” 

Oh, you naughty boy, the Master thinks, reaching in and taking one. The Doctor digs out a handful, snacking on them as he tucks the bag back into his pocket. Pure ginger is far stronger than anything humans would put into a drink, and the Master feels the effects start to hit him barely as soon as he’s swallowed the thing. 

He abandons his drink for now, resting his chin on his hand and watching the Doctor. This one is so pretty. It’s a shame about the whole goo-snake-body-swap fiasco; the Master would have loved to get to know this one better. He’s so sweet, although hardly innocent, given the amount of snogging, and probably more than just snogging, that he knows goes on with...just about anyone who’ll entertain him. 

He’s so pretty, and so far away, that it’s almost enough to make the Master forget who he is. But images flash through his mind- _Gallifrey, a child falling from a cliff, experiment after experiment after experiment_ \- and he has to fight back a scowl. He’s associated the Timeless Child with his Doctor, maybe the one before her just a bit, but it’s all of them. Every last one. And there are so many more of them than there should be. 

He reaches out, plucking another chocolate ginger from the Doctor’s hand. He needs this. 

“Is everything alright, Agent O? You look a little bit tense.” The Doctor’s voice is suddenly soft, concerned, and it breaks the Master’s hearts just a little bit more. He doesn’t like lying to the Doctor. No matter how much he kids himself that he’s having fun...he hates this. It hurts. 

“I’m fine,” he assures the Doctor. The Master makes the tension drain from his shoulders, and forces a small, nervous smile. “It’s just, well- you’re a very good looking man, and you came to sit with _me_ , and...that sort of thing doesn’t happen to me.” 

“Oh, well, I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake, Agent O.” The Doctor clasps his shoulder, leaning in to whisper in his ear. “I’m not a man.” 

“You’re not?” The Master looks him up and down again. 

“Oh, no. I’m a Time Lord,” the Doctor murmurs, patting his shoulder like he’d just imparted some great wisdom upon the Master. 

“I see.” _No, you’re not_ , the Master thinks. Or perhaps he is. Perhaps the Doctor is the quintessence of a Time Lord, the most perfect example of the species, and the rest of them are all just bad copies. He isn’t entirely sure which is worse; the Doctor being something alien, or the Doctor being better than him. 

“You probably don’t,” the Doctor says with a dreamy smile. “But that’s alright. Humans...you’re all such brilliant creatures. I’d kiss all of you, if _only_ I had the time...” There’s a faintly tortured look in his eyes, as if not having the time to snog billions of people is the absolute worst thing in the world. 

For this Doctor, at this point in his life, it probably _is_. 

It’s hard to talk to this one. The Master wants to be angry. At the very least, he wants to make a few cruel comments, send him off with his tail between his legs. But every time he sees that smile, the sparkle in the Doctor’s eyes, the words die in his throat. He can’t bear to hurt this one, because he’s a reminder of simpler times. Before the Time War, before the Year That Never Was, before the Vault. 

He has always loved the Doctor, and he knows that he always will. But this version reminds him of a time when he still believed that the Doctor could love him back, and it _hurts_. 

“My dear fellow,” the Doctor says, and he’s gone all soft again. He touches the Master’s cheek, and it takes monumental effort not to tear himself away, or to press desperately against his hand. “Is something wrong? You look like you’re about to cry.” 

The Master hesitates. Memory issues and chocolate gingers taken into account, there’s a good chance that the Doctor won’t retain anything about this night for longer than a day or two. 

“Bad day,” he says quietly, and he leans in to kiss the Doctor. 

His lips are soft and warm and taste like the ginger he’s been eating. The Master wants more; he crowds closer, feels a sudden fast heartsbeat against his chest. He bites the Doctor’s bottom lip, and the Doctor whimpers far too loudly to be appropriate for such a dingy little bar. 

“Shh,” the Master says as he breaks away. He gets a glassy-eyed stare for his troubles, followed by the Doctor crawling into his lap and kissing him again. 

He’s glad that this corner, with the high-backed sofa, affords them a little privacy, because it’s impossible not to let himself go a bit when the Doctor is sat on his legs, kissing him like nothing else matters. The Master’s hearts ache with longing to be _honest_ , but he’s no good at that. And he’s a coward. He can’t bear to ruin this moment by telling the truth. 

He closes his eyes, and almost lets out an embarrassing whimper of his own as the Doctor’s hand gently cups his cheek. The other one goes to his hair, and the Master feels tears well up behind his closed eyelids. 

It has been so long since someone was this tender with him. He hasn’t been kissed since the graveyard, since Missy. All those long years in the Vault, and the Doctor denied him so much as peck on the cheek, even though Missy had planted plenty of those on him. He has missed feeling like the Doctor cares for him. 

He gets a facsimile of the feeling from his texting with her latest incarnation. She cares for O. She cares deeply for him; perhaps more than she cares for any of her current travelling companions. The Master has often pictured what it would be like to kiss her; to bring her to O’s poky little London flat, and kiss her gently, softly, _sweetly_ , until she melts in his arms. 

Then, he’d get rough. He’d bite, and he’d let her pull his hair, and he’d bite again, and they’d have the sort of utterly unhinged, desperate, passionate sex that ends up breaking furniture and leaves both of them bruised, maybe even a little bloody. And maybe he’d end it by telling her who he was. Maybe he’d just let her hold him and pretend like everything was fine. 

But that’s not what this is. This is the Doctor’s sweetest, softest self, squirming in his lap, drunk and perpetually in the mood for a snog. This is an imitation, it isn’t what he needs, and no matter how hard his imagination works, the Doctor’s chestnut curls aren’t the soft blonde locks he wants to be lacing his fingers into. 

The Master breaks away, and lets his head fall back against the sofa, breathing hard. He scrubs at his eyes with one hand- the other one is still in the Doctor’s hair. 

Apparently the Doctor takes this as a cue, because he ducks down to start grazing his lips over the Master’s neck, and that’s— _not_ what he needs. 

“No,” he murmurs. Then- “ _No_ ,” more firmly. “Thet- _Doctor_ , no. Not now. You’re drunk, you’re really drunk.” The Master pulls on his hair, and the Doctor’s eyes are unfocused, dreamy. More so than usual. 

“I’m plerflectly fine,” he insists, apparently not noticing the extra Ls he’d inserted into that word. 

“I’m taking you home to get some rest. Come on,” the Master says firmly. Part of him still thinks it’s a good idea to stay here and kiss him a bit more, or a lot more, but he ignores that part as best he can. 

He stands up, lifting the Doctor off of his lap. He stumbles, and pouts, and clings unsteadily to the Master’s arm. He’s eaten a _lot_ of those chocolate gingers. The Master wonders if something is on his mind- memory troubles, maybe. He’d ask, but he knows it would only hurt. 

Carefully, the Master walks out of the bar. He spots the TARDIS on the street corner; he doesn’t bother faking human and asking the Doctor where he lives, he just heads straight for the blue box. 

“That’s the place,” the Doctor mumbles happily. “My dear ship. And...Charley. I left her trying on hats, felt like there was something I had to do...” He frowns. “Will she be worried, do you think?” 

“You haven’t been gone that long.” The Master suppresses his feelings. All of them. There are several that want to kiss the Doctor again. Several that want to slap him. A handful, even, that want to hug him and sob into his shoulder. Best not to feel any of them. 

He reaches the TARDIS, and pushes open the door. Stepping inside seems like a surefire way of getting himself caught, so he lingers outside. 

The Doctor stands there, gazing at him with a fond, hazy look on his face. “You’re a good man, Agent O. Thank you...” Before the Master can stop him, he leans in for one more kiss. 

A voice floats up from the depths of the TARDIS. “Doctor...? Is that you?” 

The Doctor breaks away, eyes wide. “Charley! I’m so sorry, my dear fellow. I have to see to my friend now. Thank you!” He pats the Master’s cheek, and then runs off, shutting the TARDIS door behind him. 

The Master is suddenly very aware of how cold it is out on the street. 

He draws his clothing tighter around himself, and blinks back a fresh wave of tears. This body cries so easily. He despises it. Despises how easily that version of the Doctor had found him pretty, fallen for him. He’s awful, worthless, a poor imitation at best; he deserves a form to match that. 

He stares firmly at the ground, stubbornly refusing to allow himself to feel, and starts to walk himself home. In his pocket, his phone pings with a message from the Doctor, and he hates the way his hearts leap. 

He’ll reply to her. And then he’ll do it again, and again, until he drives himself to destruction, because that’s what he deserves. 

**Author's Note:**

> I cannot stop thinking about this pairing and I don’t know why but. I love them. I hope y’all enjoyed this!! comments and kudos are very very much appreciated, they Sustain Me so much <3


End file.
